


Damned If You Do

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 13:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14333004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: Charlie’s so close, suddenly, empty beer bottle tossed to the floor, and Don’s grip on his own is lax and tenuous, the liquid inside sloshing around, precarious, close to tipping. His breath is warm against Don’s ear, curls sweeping against the trembling line of Don’s jaw, and Don can barely breathe for wanting.





	Damned If You Do

**Author's Note:**

> Ages unspecified, but let's call 'em 16 and 21. Thanks to [Jenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaLee/pseuds/JennaLee) for looking it over!

It’s a simple equation, one that Don knows Charlie would scoff at, but it’s the kind of math that works for him. You take _forced bonding time_ (“we’ll be in San Francisco til Wednesday, boys, why don’t you spend some time together?”) and add _x_ to solve for _Don not wanting to blow his brains out_.

_X_ , in this situation, is at least a six-pack of beer, with more in the fridge in case Charlie’s blabbering gets to be too much. But Don hadn’t counted on the unknown variable of Charlie stealing a beer before Don could manage to protest, drinking half down in a practiced, measured gulp that makes Don think maybe math isn’t all his baby brother has been getting up to over on the east coast. The other half goes down more slowly, and Don doesn’t know if it’s the beer that’s mellowing Charlie out or if it’s himself who’s gotten a little calmer, but this, the two of them hanging out like this, isn’t nearly as much of a chore as Don had originally assumed it’d be.

He stands, extending his hand for Charlie’s empty, and makes his way into the kitchen to toss the bottles and grab a couple more. When he comes back, two more bottles in hand, he’s hit by a megawatt grin that nearly makes him stumble over his own feet.

“Just don’t tell Mom I’m getting you drunk, okay, kid?”

Charlie nods and grins again, settling on the floor with his back against the sofa, and Don’s breath catches a little in his throat when Charlie’s curls brush his bare knee.

It’s another two beers for him and one and a half for Charlie before they actually get to talking, the game on the television a low background drone, flickering blue as the summer sun sets.

“So, you manage to get any out there, or has Mom cockblocked your whole college experience so far?”

Charlie grins, half bashful, half shit-eating, and Don lets out a whoop that echoes through the living room. “You did!”

“I might have,” Charlie hedges, but the smile on his face refuses to budge, and Don can’t help grinning in return. Clapping him on the back, Don takes a swig of beer then wipes his mouth, rolling the bottle between his palms.

“I can’t believe it. My little brother’s getting laid right under Mom’s nose, and meanwhile I’m living free and easy out here and haven’t gotten any in months.”

Charlie shifts on the couch, tucking one leg underneath himself as he turns to face Don, one eyebrow cocked. “Months? You?”

“I’m not some kinda machine, Chuck.”

Charlie grimaces. “Don’t call me that. And it’s just—I’ve never known you to be without a girlfriend for more than a few _weeks_ since you started dating Jessica Dylan in seventh grade.”

“Ah, Jess. She was cute. Wonder what she’s up to now.” Don shakes his head. “Anyway, the point is, it happens, and I have been in a dry spell for longer than I’d like to admit, so why don’t you tell me about this chick you fooled around with so I can—what’s the phrase? Live vicariously through you?”

Charlie rubs his hand over the back of his neck, staring determinedly at Don’s bare feet propped on the coffee table. “It wasn’t, uh.”

Don waits, but there’s no more forthcoming, so he prods. “Wasn’t?”

“It wasn’t a chick,” Charlie says in a rush, glancing up quickly at Don’s face before looking back down again, clenching his beer bottle so hard Don can see his knuckles turning white.

“A woman, I’m sorry, I didn’t take feminism 101 or whatever they’re teaching—”

“It wasn’t a woman, Don,” Charlie says, cutting him off. “I had—it was with another guy, okay?”

Don pauses, weighs his potential responses carefully. “Oh,” he says, finally.

Charlie lets out a snort, shaking his head. “Yeah. Oh.”

There’s a heavy pause, and then, too late, Don says, “tell me about him.” He doesn’t want to know, can’t stand to know, can’t bear the thought of some guy with his hands all over Charlie, and he doesn’t know why. 

“Really?” Charlie tilts his head, furrows his forehead, the softness on his face tugging at Don like something physical. His fingers itch to smooth the wrinkles between Charlie’s brows but he stays himself, taps an aimless, jagged tempo on his beer instead. Anything to keep his hands busy and away from his brother. The beers he’s had are sitting heavy in his stomach, acid creeping up his throat.

“‘Course,” Don says, trying to pass it off as easy, but it sounds forced, even to his own ears. “Hey, if you’re—I mean—less competition for me, right?” The joke falls flat, and he winces. “Jesus, Chuck, I’m sorry. Tell me about him, really.”

Charlie smiles, looking wobbly and warm and almost pathetically grateful, and it’s like a knife through Don’s heart.

“His name was Michael. I met him in my Combinatorial Analysis class last semester, and we—we got to debating the various methods of graph coloring at his apartment after class one night, and one thing led to another and then we, uh—”

“What’d he look like?” Don interrupts, because he has no desire to hear what was gonna come after that ‘uh’. 

“Dark hair. Tall—well, taller than me, anyway. He had nice lips, really, uh—full, kind of—” Charlie takes a drink, then darts his eyes over to Don. There’s a shift in the atmosphere like a storm is on its way, electricity humming just underneath Don’s skin. “Kind of like your lips actually.”

“Like my lips,” Don repeats, weakly. He’s either had way too much beer for this or not nearly enough. His head is spinning and he’s got a knot in his gut, wound tight, making him ache inside. Charlie’s chugging his beer now, like each gulp is giving him courage, and it’s barely a reprieve, keeping him quiet at the expense of his head tipping back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and swallows, and Don can’t look anywhere else.

“Dark eyes, too,” Charlie continues, determined, knuckles clenched white against the bottle, and all Don can think of is that grip, that tight grip, “and he looked really good in—he had these tight jeans—”

“Okay, Charlie, that’s en—”

“You _asked_ ,” Charlie says, fiercely, and there’s fire in his eyes now, fire that Don doesn’t want to try to understand, fire that matches the flames licking at his nerves, making him tingle head to toe. “You wanna hear how we fucked, Don? How he got me down on my stomach and spread my legs—”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie, shut the fuck up, what’s wrong with y—”

Charlie’s so close, suddenly, empty beer bottle tossed to the floor, and Don’s grip on his own is lax and tenuous, the liquid inside sloshing around, precarious, close to tipping. His breath is warm against Don’s ear, curls sweeping against the trembling line of Don’s jaw, and Don can barely breathe for wanting.

“You wanna hear what I called him when I came, Donnie?”

Don groans and knows he’s lost. He’s distantly aware of the bottle in his fingers dropping to the ground, the clunk of the glass and the splash of the liquid onto the hardwood floor, and then Charlie’s on his lap, mouth warm on his neck, fingers tight in the kicked-out tufts of hair at the base of his skull.

“Charlie, what the hell are you—”

“The whole time,” Charlie breathes into his skin, scrapes of teeth sending jolts down Don’s spine, making him grip Charlie’s hips like a reflex, a compulsion, “god, the whole time we were fucking all I could think about was you, all I wanted was you, was this, right here.”

“Charlie, it’s—shit, Charlie, Charlie—” Charlie’s hands are quick, his movements smooth as he reaches between them, unbuckling Don’s belt then popping the button on his fly. Fingers on the zipper, he pauses, pulling back to look at Don, and in a life full of gorgeous girls and vivid sunsets, he’s the most beautiful thing Don’s ever seen.

“Tell me you don’t want it and we can just—I’ll go out to the garage and we’ll pretend this never happened.” His face is a heady mix of vulnerability and determination, and somewhere in him Don’s always known he’ll give Charlie whatever he wants.

“That feel like I don’t want it, buddy?” Don whispers, grabbing Charlie’s hand and curling it around the erection straining against the front of his jeans. Charlie moans and leans forward, crushing his mouth against Don’s, and it tastes like regret and salvation all at once.

The kiss moves from wet and sloppy, too much tongue and teeth, to something sweet and dirty, and Don groans into Charlie’s mouth, one hand coming up to grasp a handful of curls, the other slipping under the hem of Charlie’s t-shirt to sweep against the bare skin there. Charlie breaks off, shuddering, his head tipping back, and Don takes the opportunity to trail kisses down the long line of his throat, taking care not to leave any marks that Charlie’d have to explain away later.

“Where’d you learn to kiss like that?” he murmurs, nosing Charlie’s collarbone through his shirt. Charlie laughs above him, high and breathless.

“From you, actually.”

“I didn’t teach you that. I’d remember _that_.”

“Used to—mmm—used to watch you make out with your girlfriends in the garage. Sometimes.”

Don looks up, glaring. “Fucking pervert.”

“It was scientific curiosity,” Charlie counters, then grins shamelessly. “And prime spank bank material.”

“I oughta wring your neck,” Don mutters, letting the words trail off into a groan when Charlie pushes his shirt up and captures a nipple in his mouth, flicking it to hardness with his tongue before biting gently.

“Lemme make it up to you.”

Then Charlie’s hands are at his fly again, quick fingers pulling the zipper all the way down before Don can even move to stop him, and honestly he doesn’t think he’s got it in him to try because Charlie looks so damn eager and he feels so damn good. His cock is so hard it hurts and he hisses when Charlie tugs his boxer-briefs down, nestling the waistband right under his balls, the release in pressure a welcome relief even if the cool air is a shock against his heated skin. God, just watching Charlie look at him has got him more turned on than any of the girls he’s fucked up at college. Baseball groupies have got nothing on the pure adoration that’s shining out from Charlie’s big brown eyes.

“I figured,” he says, running careful fingertips up and down Don’s length, featherlight touch making Don buck up, desperate for more contact.

“Fig-figured what?” Don’s surprised he can even make words, and Charlie’s barely touched him. He’s fifteen again, Dana McKenzie wrapping her soft little cheerleader hand around his dick in the darkness of the garage, breath smelling like bubblegum, long blonde hair tickling Don’s neck as she kisses him and jacks him off.

But he isn’t fifteen and this isn’t Dana, this is Charlie with his big palms, long-fingered and surprisingly strong as he takes hold of Don’s cock and just _holds_ it, studying it, like it’s the answer to an equation.

“Figured you’d be big,” Charlie murmurs, and Don can see his cock pulse in Charlie’s hand as much as he feels it.

“Jesus, Charlie—” Don starts, but Charlie isn’t finished.

“I think I might be— yeah, a little bit longer than you, maybe half an inch, although it’s hard to tell without them side-by-side— but you’re so _thick_.” He blinks up at Don, all innocence. “Bet the girls love that, huh, Donnie?”

“I do okay,” Don allows, which is putting it mildly, but now doesn’t seem like the time to brag about his conquests, not when Charlie’s grip is tightening, not while he’s still talking— 

“—can’t wait to feel you inside me,” he says, “bet you’d fill me up so good,” and that’s all he gets out before Don’s dragging him back up by his hair to mouth roughly at his neck, panting hard, feeling the precome roll down his dick.

“The mouth on you, Chuck, I swear to god, you have any idea how you sound?”

Charlie laughs against his hair but Don’s not laughing, it’s not funny, all the blood that isn’t in his dick is rushing in his ears, there’s none going to his brain and he’s dizzy and desperate and he wants, god, he wants so much he doesn’t know where to start. He’s out of his element, out of control, Charlie knocking him completely off-balance, and it’s exhilarating but it’s terrifying too, because they’ve barely touched and Don’s already afraid he’s ruined for anything but this for the rest of his life.

He tugs Charlie’s t-shirt off by the collar, stretching the fabric as he pulls it roughly over Charlie’s curls, leaving them mussed and wild and so tempting. Charlie’s eyes are bright when he looks up at Don, smile curving wide and wild, and Don can’t help himself. He reached a hand out, rubs his thumb roughly over the dip of Charlie’s bottom lip, groans when Charlie laves at the tip with his tongue. The feeling is electric but the visual is what makes it absolutely obscene, and all Don can think is how much he wants that mouth everywhere.

“Charlie, Charlie,” he gasps, reaching down and tugging at Charlie’s fly until he gives up and just yanks his jeans down off his hips.

“Yeah, Donnie, come on, touch me,” Charlie groans, grinding his hips against Don’s so tight that Don’s barely able to slip his hand between them, slick press of Charlie’s dick against his the best, most terrible thing he’s ever felt. There’s no hell in Judaism but Don’s going there all the same, baby brother squirming naked on his lap, begging with his mouth and his eyes and his long, lean body for Don to defile him. Don’s going to hell but it doesn’t matter because there isn’t any heaven or hell right now, not even a world outside this house, this room, the infinitesimal space between his body and Charlie’s as Don wraps his hand around both of their cocks and begins to jerk them off.

His hand isn’t big enough to wrap completely around them both and the angle’s gotta be all wrong for Charlie but it doesn’t seem like he minds from the noises he’s making, the snap of his hips into the circle of Don’s hand, shining curls sweeping his shoulders as he tips his head back and moans, fingers grasping bruisingly at Don’s shoulders like it’s all he can do to hold on. 

“That good, Chuck?” Don breathes, leaning forward to suck a kiss into the smooth skin just below Charlie’s sharp, jutting collarbone, laving his tongue over the mark he makes. “This what you wanted, huh?”

“Fuck,” Charlie responds, voice lower than Don’s ever heard it before. “God, Don, you have no idea, I wanted, I want—”

“Yeah, I know. Gonna give it to you, buddy,” he says, running his free hand up Charlie’s side, “gonna fuck you next time, gonna get inside you and give it to you so good, feel you all around me,” and there’s a tiny part of him that’s screaming that there shouldn’t be a _next time_ , that there shouldn’t even have been a _this time_ , but Charlie’s gasping and bucking his hips and then he’s coming, hot ropes splattering against Don’s stomach, and Don loses it too, and there’s no thought of _shouldn’t_ or _wrong_ or anything else because there’s no way anything else in the world could ever feel as good as this does.

Charlie collapses on him, pressing sleepy, sloppy kisses against the sweaty skin of Don’s neck, and Don lets his eyes close, stroking the bumps of Charlie’s spine. He feels the dread creeping in as he winds down from his orgasm, the feeling of _wrong_ and _oh god what have I done_ , and he’s about to push Charlie off his lap, go upstairs and throw up everything he’s had to eat and drink and then some.

Then Charlie lifts his head and smiles at him, soft and sweet, still the brother he’s always known despite the mess between them. No sense panicking now—he was damned the moment Charlie climbed on his lap the first time and Don didn’t push him off. A giddy sort of acceptance, of giving in, settling in his bones, Don just smiles back, pulls him closer and drops a kiss on Charlie’s curls. There’s no coming back from this.


End file.
